Treasures of Cardolan
by Bazylia de Grean
Summary: That night, she dreams of mist and stone. There are torches and rusty iron braziers, and the soft sunset glow of flames in a golden circlet on a pale brow, on a cloak of cobwebs – gossamer – and eyes darker than the night sky. She knows the legends, she knows who he is. That is why she is not afraid; because the blood of his people flows in her veins. OCs, Barrow wights.


**. . .**

 **Treasures of Cardolan**

 **. . .**

The evening is not a disaster, but close to that, as everyone seems more interested in Bob's story than her playing. So in the end she puts her lute aside and listens as Bob recounts how his daughter, Lalia, almost died when she had got lost among the Barrows, and now keeps telling everyone she was rescued by a strange merry man in colourful clothes. Who was singing.

A man, singing. At the Barrows. There should be some limits to wild imagination, she thinks in disdain, carefully wrapping her lute in a piece of soft waxed leather.

Foolish girl. The Barrows are forbidden territory for a reason. But of course every child in Bree wants to go there and look for an adventure. The smart ones know that 'forbidden' means you do not go there without a weapon. And when you get older, you finally discover that all the songs lie and you do not go there alone to play a hero. And you never venture there after sunset. A few simple rules, and you can walk among the old stones and look for treasures and return unscathed. She knows. She has been there with her friends more than a few times. And she has never been afraid. A thrill of adventure, of facing danger, yes, but never fear. There is Dúnedain blood in her veins, through her mother and grandmother. The blood of old kingdoms. Why should she be afraid of shadows of her own people's past?

Sometimes, she misses those escapades – sneaking out of the house at dawn, 'to get to Buckland and meet those Brandybuck kids we used to play with', she would always tell her mother. And her mother narrowed her sharp green eyes, but always agreed in the end.

But she is almost all grown up now, and learning a trade – she wishes to be a minstrel, like her grandfather. Many hours of playing her lute and memorising old songs, and first attempts at writing her own ones. And some of them tell of a shadow of a kingdom lost, of faces appearing in the mist rolling among the hills, and of the moss growing in the etchings on old forgotten stones. There is yearning in those words, one she would have never expected of herself, because she loves life and laughter, and firmly believes in living in here and now, and to the fullest. Travelling, song and music and dance, jokes with friends, and a bed of grass under the stars, and the eyes of a young Ranger, dark as the night sky – that is what she wants in life. Brightness, joy, adventures.

And yet there are some nights in autumn, when mist is raising from all the small lakes around the town and coiling behind the windows, when she sits on the bed and quietly plays a wistful tune, and mutters words filled with... longing, perhaps. And curiosity. But never sadness. She refuses to feel sadness.

So when her Ranger is sent away to Esteldín, she does not weep for being left alone. Maybe he will come back. And if not, there will be others; there are always some Rangers in the town, sticking out among other men; oaks among rowans and willows and mere bushes. Meanwhile, she keeps mastering her trade, singing at 'The Prancing Pony' or sometimes even at the town hall square. And local boys and young men come to listen, and to look. She knows she is different from most Bree maidens; slim, but taller than most, with finer features. And no false modesty – looks are not as important for a minstrel's trade as voice and musical talent, but they help.

There is one boy – ah, he is almost a man now, just a few months older than her, but he is lost like a little boy when he is around her – who keeps trying to win her favour by doing all sorts of foolish things. Going to the Barrows alone to bring her old trinkets and parchments, so that she would always have some inspiration at hand. It is useful, she admits, and it amuses her how much he is ready to do for a smile, and how absurdly happy he is when she mentions one of the things he brought her in a song. Useful, but unimportant; she does not even remember his name.

Once, he returns after dusk, tired and without his sword; she forbids him to go again. Unimportant or not, he is someone's son, and she would rather not be blamed if he died a fool's death. He does not listen; for some reason, unfathomable to her, he mistakes foolishness for heroism. She shouts at him, and does not accept the harp he brought her. He presses his lips tightly together when he just leaves the instrument at her doorstep and turns away, because he knows she will give in to that particular temptation.

The harp is old and tarnished, but once it must have been beautiful – elegant carvings, filigrees, traces of gold here and there – almost exactly the same colour as her hair. Just once, she thinks as she picks it up to play. And when she begins, she knows she will never put it away again. The sound is clear and sweet and otherworldly; her grandfather would give up his sword and right hand to play a harp like that even once.

She tries out one of her new songs of old treasures, misty hills, secrets hiding in the shadows of ancient stones. There are images blooming in her mind as she plays; memories. It is autumn, but she can picture green grass and grey sky and grey stones, and whispers on the wind. Soft and beckoning like the melody she is playing, and full of yearning.

That night, she dreams of mist and stone. There are carvings on the wall, flowing like a river, and there are lights floating in the air but no candles. Quietly, as noiselessly as she can, she follows the whispers, curious as ever, feeling the familiar thrill of adventure running down her spine. She turns, and the tunnel ends in a circular chamber, and there are torches and rusty iron braziers, and the soft sunset glow of flames in a golden circlet on a pale brow, on a cloak of cobwebs – no, gossamer – and eyes darker than the night sky, reflections of the fire gleaming in their depths like stars. The man turns, tall and regal, if somewhat gaunt, and looks at her. His face is tired, but ageless, finely-sculpted features framed by hair dark like shadows. He is the most glorious sight she has ever witnessed.

She knows the legends, she knows who he is. That is why she is not afraid; because the blood of his people flows in her veins.

"My prince," she says with a respectful bow.

The man smiles.

She wakes with a gasp, and it takes her a moment to register where she is and what is going on. And then she laughs. She had no idea her imagination could paint such pictures. She can weave them for others, through music, but she has never thought sleep would bring her a dream like that. And that she would smile when recalling it.

. . .

Next time, the boy whose name she does not care to remember brings her a necklace. It is old – ancient – made of gold and dark blue jewels, darker than the night sky. She thinks of her dream and the prince's eyes and smiles to herself softly. The boy thinks the smile is meant for him, because this time she even thanks him for the gift. Oh, well, he is useful, and it turns out he can brings her real treasures, too, not only worthless trinkets.

That night, she sings a new song, one she has spent the whole morning writing. She has to improvise the melody, but that has never been difficult for her, and with her beautiful new instrument it is even easier – as if the harp knew what note she wanted to play before she even thinks it. The boy thinks the song is meant for him, too, but she lets him; for a gift like that harp, she will let him have his illusions at least; it is a small price for such a wonder.

Behind the windows, the evening is dark, shadows and autumn mist coiling in the street, and lamps, the light blurred and seeming like candle flames floating in the air. When the wind blows, it disperses some of the mist into thin gossamer threads. The light from the fireplace reflects in the windows, sparks gleaming on the glass; stars against the dark of the night. And she can swear that for a moment she glimpses a face outside. Waiting. Listening.

Later, in her dream, she walks the hills flooded with the light of the setting sun; everything is on fire, barrows and stones and grass and sky, gold and red and all shades of flames. First glimpse of the moon on the horizon, first stars, and first shadows of the night in the prince's dark eyes.

She bows slightly, trying to remember the pictures from grandfather's old book illustrating the history of Arnor and Gondor, trying to remember what she should do with her hands not to make a spectacle of herself.

"My prince," she greets him, with respect. But there is something almost playful in her small smile.

He smiles back, and as the night falls and shadows deepen, his pale face seems bright like starlight, and his eyes look like the dark jewels in her necklace.

"You play most lovely songs, fair minstrel," he says in a voice soft like the whisper of the wind.

"I was... inspired," she answers, almost insolent now, feeling the familiar thrill of adventure down her spine.

"I see." His quiet laughter is like the rustle of grass under their feet. Then he sweeps back his cloak, which has a silver shine to it in the moonlight, and reaches out to her, offering her his arm. "Would you walk with me?"

Slowly, she raises her hand, without fear, just curiosity. But when her fingers touch the sleeve of his robe, he is real and warm.

"Yes," she whispers back, as if sharing a delightful secret, and for the first time in her life slightly timid, because he is of royal blood, and she is a commoner, and perhaps she is overstepping.

He briefly covers her hand with his, seeing her momentarily uncertainty and trying to disperse it; his palm is cold, like the morning dew.

"Would you sing for me, fair minstrel?" he asks, a glimmer to his eyes, and it transforms his face; as if her presence washed his exhaustion away and filled him with life.

She raises an eyebrow; an invitation, a challenge. "Would you play for me, my prince?"

"Who could refuse such a voice?" he answers, a corner of his lips curving up briefly.

It does not even surprise her that it seems he conjures the harp out of thin air. He moves away from her to sit on a fallen stone, his cloak falling over it like gossamer and moss, and spilling down onto the grass. He gestures for her to rest on it, and she does, gathering her skirts modestly and sitting at his feet.

He plays and she sings, sad and haunting songs of such beauty as she has never weaved in her life, but for some reason the words come to her now, some in a language she understands only barely, steaming off the stones and earth in swirls of mist. He plays and she sings, and as the night falls it seem the darkness of his eyes fills up the sky, and the stars move over their heads like a crown of glory.

When her voice starts becoming raspy with fatigue, the prince puts the harp away. Then he reaches out and brushes a strand of hair out of her face.

"You have a lovely voice, my fair minstrel," he says with a sigh. "If I could, I would keep your here with me forever, to listen to your songs."

"If you played such wonders for me to sings to, perhaps I would," she answers with a smile.

There is a flash of something – interest? – in his eyes. He motions to her to get up, offers her his arm, and together they walk in the sea of mist and starlight until morning.

When she wakes, she is too delighted and amused by her dream to notice there is wet grass on the floor and in her bed and on the soles of her feet.

. . .

She writes new songs and spends hours bent over her harp, trying to capture the melodies the dream played to her. She remembers some, and plays these songs in the evening, and for the first time, her performance ends in silence, not in a thunder of applause. Some people are wiping tears from their eyes, some just stare at her. And then someone starts clapping, but there are no cheerful cries. There is something better. Admiration. Her grandfather, the most talented bard she has ever heard, the only bard among Men to have sung at Círdan's court in Lindon, sweeps her a bow. There are no words to describe the elation she feels – air and fire and starlight, and the wind that takes her up and lets her float above it all.

At night, she is no longer surprised that dreams bring her to the Barrows. She is alone, wading in mist and shadows, and with no weapon, but she is not afraid. The wind whispers, and as it reaches her ear it brings her the sweet sounds of the harp. She follows the music, and finds the prince on the same stone where they sat last time. He looks up, taking in her face, her hair, loose and flowing, her nightgown – somehow it does not feel inappropriate, maybe because she is in a dream, or perhaps because it is modest enough. His gaze lingers on the golden necklace at her throat.

He greets her with a smile. "Would you sing for me again tonight, my fair minstrel?" he asks as he spreads out his cape for her to sit on.

This time she sits not at his feet, but on the stone next to him. "Would you sing with me, my prince?" she replies with a question of her own, smiling back at him.

"Your wish is my command," he says in a whisper that tugs at her heart as his music does, and for an instant the yearning overwhelms her.

He plays and they sing together, and even the sky bows down to listen, bows down so low it loses all the stars as they fall into the mist at their feet. The night becomes dark, the prince's pale face the only light, his dark eyes two deep wells of secrets and promises.

"Would you come to me tomorrow night, my fair minstrel?" he asks in a low, soft voice, his hand touching her cheek.

She wants to. She does not want to leave.

"Your wish is my command, my prince," she whispers back, suddenly tense with anticipation.

He smiles.

And then abruptly the dream is over, and she wakes in her bed. She immediately goes up to her little desk to search for a clear piece of parchment, so she does not notice the grass on the sheets and a few drops of morning dew on her cheek.

. . .

She spends most of the day in her room, writing down songs, trying to recall melodies, remembering the last evening at the inn. Imagining how glorious her next performance will be – because it will, she is certain of that. Who knows, perhaps it will even be the performance of her life, one that will make people remember her and talk about her and immortalise her name.

As the sun set, she falls asleep at her desk, head resting on her crossed hands, her breath a mist over the dark jewels of the necklace.

When she opens her eyes, she is on the hills, threading through a sea of mist, at sunset – a lake of gold and fire, first stars framing the horizon.

The prince is waiting for her, ever regal, still like one of the stones, but as she approaches, he smiles. Without a word, he reaches out, offering his hand instead of a greeting.

She steps closer and takes it, the gossamer of her gown whispering at her feet as she moves.

"Would you stay with me, my fair minstrel?" he asks softly, gently pulling her to him, all the fire and gold of the sunset burning in his eyes.

"For a price," she answers with a quiet laugh, so close now that his cloak is brushing against her legs. With sudden clarity she knows it is her last dream, that there will be no more, and wistfully she thinks she will miss his music and his voice and his eyes.

"Name it." He is holding both her hands now, his touch light, a smile on his lips. But there is something else in his eyes, something darker. It must be sorrow.

He will miss her, and she finds the thought oddly pleasing.

"You know many songs, my prince. There is one price they all mention." She tries to sounds serious, but her smile widens, threatening to turn into laughter.

Slowly, curiously, she runs her fingertips along the edge of his cloak, right at his shoulder.

He catches her hand and brings it to his chest, and in a moment he is holding both her palms in one of his. The robes he is wearing must be much thicker than they look, because she cannot feel his heartbeat.

"I was hoping you would say that," he says, his hand leaving a trail of dew on her cheek. His eyes are gleaming like the dark jewels.

"Just remember, my prince," she whispers, leaning in, "tales and songs always say that a true kiss should take your breath away."

"Worry not, my fair minstrel." He smiles, and his face, pale like stars – and cobwebs and old bones – obscures the sky. He leans in, too, and the darkness of his eyes fills the world. "It will."


End file.
